The Big Short

I stood there for a while waiting and watching the crowd. Then it dawned on me that the dude and all of his entourage had disappeared. I walked up the steps and into the part of the club that faced the street. They weren't there. Neither was Kelly.

I looked around and there was a little neon sign advertising the lavatories. Those were in a narrow hall and the door at the end of that hall was open. Kelly was nowhere to be seen and the place where she had been headed opened onto a proverbial back alley. All the flashing lights and klaxons went off in my head at once.

I walked down the hall and peered out the door. There were figures moving around outside in the dark. It didn't take Sherlock Holmes to reconstruct the scene. They had waited until Kelly headed for the girls room. Then they had forced her out into the alley. The actual reason was unclear, but it was pretty obvious what the intention was - rape!

The room to my left was the storeroom. There were crates of wine in it. Retsina is a working man's wine. A full bottle also makes an excellent club. I grabbed one and muttered, "Don't leave home without one."

Ireland's Wild Geese fought everybody's wars from Culloden to Antietam. The Royal Irish regiment anchored the steadfast squares at Waterloo. The insane bravery of Tom Meagher's Irish Brigade held the Wheatfield long enough to avert disaster at Gettysburg and the Irish Guards battled Hitler's panzers to a standstill on the causeways of Dunkerque.

That heritage of undaunted courage was on full display in the form of one valiant Irish woman.

Kelly was in big trouble. But she was neither crying, nor pleading for mercy. She was making a fighting retreat. Her eyes were a gunfighters tracking her assailants. Her attitude was Nivelle at Verdun, "Ils ne passeront pas!" They shall not pass.

The five menacing men had backed her as far as she could go. She stopped and stood defiant. The leader made a lunge. Kelly's powerful right leg was a striking snake. The man let loose a very loud wet groan and toppled sideways holding himself.

The guy behind the leader stumbled over him and went down too. Kelly took a quick step forward and savagely kicked him in the throat. He began to make loud choking noises.

Immediately, Kelly was locked and loaded back behind her defenses. Her superb body was coiled like a pit viper's and the look in her eyes would have rivaled the snake's for pitilessness.

Then the cavalry thundered up. My target was the big thug on the right. He was perhaps two-hundred-and-eighty pounds and I wasn't sure that I could take him in a fair fight. But in an alley fight, "fair" is for losers.

I have none of Kelly's gallant ancestry. However, I DO have all the ferocity and ruthlessness of the Viking. Accordingly, I swung the wine bottle in an arc and smashed it onto the little knob where the big guy's LCL connects, on the outside of the knee.

The bottle and the knee exploded, and he bellowed in agony. I could distinctly hear his MCL snap as I shoved him to my right and his knee joint collapsed sickeningly inward. The little guy beside him turned, startled, and got the jagged neck of the broken bottle twisted into his gut. I used all of my strength. Blood gushed. He screamed and collapsed thrashing trying to hold back his intestines.

The untouched fifth guy, had stopped and was gaping at me in astonishment., Kelly finished him with a thunderous 360-degree roundhouse kick to the head. It was a ninja move, but ninjas don't usually do that in short LBDs and stylish four-inch stilettos.

The attacker's head hit the stone wall then rebounded off of the cobblestones in the alley. I thought, "Geez I think she killed him!!"

The whole fight took approximately 15 seconds. It was quiet now except for the screaming of the two guy's on the ground and the choking noises from the one whose windpipe Kelly had crushed. Kelly calmly walked over and kicked each of them in the head. The noise stopped. It was as quiet as a battlefield aftermath.

I didn't need to do a damage assessment on Kelly. She was clearly untouched. But her blood was up. In fact, I got the distinct feeling that my OWN manhood would be in grave jeopardy until I got her calmed down. I said gently, "It's over baby. You're safe."

She slowly came back from whatever fighting frenzy she had gone into. Her face momentarily displayed the fear that she had felt. Then, she put on a jaunty smile and her amazing emerald cat eyes got that glint of Irish humor. She said serenely, "What took you so long?"

Bravery comes in all kinds of packages.

The leader was struggling to get up. I grabbed him under his stubbly chin and hauled him straight up in the air. He weighed perhaps 140. I curl more than that.

He fought me, dangling by his throat. So, I slammed him into the stone wall. He slumped unconscious in my grip. I said to Kelly, "Let's go somewhere more private. I want to talk to this guy."

He was out cold. But we were at an establishment where that wasn't an uncommon situation. I just threw his arm over my shoulder, like he was a passed out drunken friend and carried him back into the club, feet dragging. God! He stank.

Kelly broke the trail for us yelling, "Get out of the way!! He's going to barf." The crowd parted like Moses and the Red Sea.

We flagged down a cab and asked him to take us to Monolithos Beach, which was on the other side of the island. We paid the cabbie enough that he didn't question why we were going to the seashore in the middle of the night, with a passed-out drunk slumped between us.

The ride took ten minutes. The cabbie dropped us at the edge of the road, across from a tavern that was still going full blast even through it was approaching eleven o'clock. We walked out onto the dark and deserted beach and down to the rocks of the breakwater. I was carrying my bundle over my shoulder.

I dumped him on the black volcanic sand, right next to the rocks. The breaking waves would muffle the screams. I slapped him awake. His eyes opened, confused. Then they narrowed. I had to hand it to him. He had just had his nuts cracked by my wife and he was looking at the guy who had knocked him out. But, the hate that filled his eyes was impossible to miss.

I said gruffly, "Who are you? Who sent you!!"

He spit at me and said in broken English, "I am a humble servant of Allah and you and all of your infidel friends will die at the hands of the mubtakkar."

I laughed and said in a friendly tone of voice, "I am going to break your fingers one at a time until you tell me what you are doing here and why you attacked my wife. If I run out of fingers I'm going to get REALLY unreasonable."

He gave me a venomous look and remained silent. I took his right pinky finger pulled it out of its socket and twisted. That inflicts maximum pain and is almost effortless to do. He writhed in agony, but he didn't make a sound.

It took three more fingers before he began to talk. He said that he was the Sheik sent to deliver the Caliph's money and the mubtakkar to the Batal. He said, "The Batal will do the rest."

I actually had the passing thought, "Dang! Pritman's right. There WAS terrorism"

I said, "Where is Holly Pritman?"

The man looked directly at Kelly and said, "The Batal killed her today. That is the fate of ALL infidel whores." Kelly actually laughed out loud.

I said, "Was the Batal the guy who was standing on the patio with you?" He looked reluctant again, so I took ahold of the pointer finger on his right hand. He hastily said, "Yes, praise be to Allah!!"

*****

Adeel had witnessed the carnage in the alley and his only instinct was to flee. The two who were pursuing him were clearly more dangerous than he had been told and he had accomplished everything he had set out to do.

He made a vow that he and the red-haired bitch would meet again.

He taxied back to the hotel, gathered a few things put the money, the mubtakkar and the plans into a big travel bag and boarded the nightly Blue Star Ferry to Chania. Assuming that they would eventually find Holly's body, flying out of Crete was safer than Athens. Border security wasn't a problem thanks to the EU. Two days from now he would be in DC .

Adeel picked up the phone and called the Caliph's emergency number. He had to tell him what had happened. He didn't mention WHY it had happened. The Caliph might draw the accurate conclusion that Adeel had been thinking with his dick.

Adeel explained that he had the mubtakkar and that the mission could proceed. But the Sheik and his men had been rendered hors-de-combat and they were probably in the hands of the authorities now.

The Caliph paused for several moments and then said, "I'll take care of it. But one more mistake like this and you are a dead man. You have four days to make this right."

*****

We were on Santorini to convince a cheating wife to come home, not conduct a counter-terrorism exercise. But the wife was dead, and we now had a genuine terrorist on our hands.

We couldn't exactly pat the dude on the head and tell him to go, and sin no more. But, it made no sense to add to the body count. We had already left a trail of mayhem behind us. So, killing him was off the table for the time being. I needed to rethink.

It was just after 23:00 on Santorini, but it was still business hours back home. We hunkered down behind the rocks of the breakwater and I called Chuck in DC.

It took a second to register that the voice on the other end of the line had just said, "Hello." That was weird. In any bureaucracy, the odds of getting ahold of your contact on a cold call, first-ring are close to zero. But Chuck had picked up right away.

Again - the voice said "Hello". The wind was increasing, and the waves were breaking louder. I held the phone to my ear and shouted, "Chuck?" The voice said, "Yes." It was indeed Chuck. He was answering his phone like he expected us to call.

I told him that, against all odds we had acquired a guy who knew about a terrorist plot. I said, "It looks like it might be a major exploit. But, all we have is the one guy." I didn't tell him that there were four more in a dark alley, either dead or in various stages of fatal distress.

I asked him what he wanted us to do. He said, "Wait - one and I'll talk to my SAC."

A couple of minutes passed, and he came back on. He sounded puzzled. He said, "Can you keep an eye on him for a few hours and meet somebody at the airport?"

I said, "Sure, Santorini, right?"

He said, "Yes, we'll send a private jet. We always like to talk to anybody who can give us solid intel." My guess was that our black site in Rumania would be getting a permanent house guest. At least until they shipped him to Guantanamo.

We were standing within sight of the airport runway. But it was still maybe a half an hour walk around it to the terminal. I wanted to get to someplace a little quieter before I broke the news to Trey. Plus, it would take a while for the JTTF to get somebody out to pick up our newly acquired Tango. So, we set off to walk to the terminal.

I called Trey while we were sitting in the neat little outside waiting room. He sounded devastated. He said anguished, "Are you certain??!!"

I thought to myself, "What a wimp!! I had just told him that his wife ran off with some stud who killed her. Pritman was fabulously wealthy, in excellent shape and there are plenty more fish with surgically enhanced tits in the sea. My first reaction would have been, "Good!"

But it was his dime. So instead I said, "No we are not. We were told that she had been killed but we have no way of confirming that."

He was sniffling as he said, "Find out for sure and call me when you know. Then I want whoever did it brought to justice I'll put an extra seven-fifty in your account as soon as I hang up."

Okay - what just happened? Why was Pritman doubling the stake? I didn't need to be paid. I had planned to settle up with the dude myself. He was the one who had put Kelly in harm's way. Our Tango had called him the "Batal." I googled that word on my phone and discovered it meant "hero" in Arabic.

The sun was coming up as a C-21 taxied up to the terminal. It was the usual gorgeous sunrise in the Cyclades. Our newfound acquaintance was napping between us, or maybe he was in shock. He had had a rough night. First Kelly had almost gelded him and then I'd dislocated a few of his fingers.

A couple of beefy soldiers and a suit emerged from the jet. They came in a side door, without bothering with passport control, or security. The suit walked up to me and said, "Are you Wakender?"

I said, "Here he is and shoved our Tango in his direction. The soldiers grabbed him and marched him back out the door and onto the plane."

The suit looked at us and said meaningfully, "This never happened."

Kelly, ever the wise-ass, snickered and said, "You need a better scriptwriter."

Then we were standing by ourselves in the Santorini airport terminal. It was like the past eight hours had never occurred.

Pritman had asked me to confirm Holly's death. So, we taxied back to the hotel. I assumed that the murder would be discovered sooner or later. Thus, it was a simple matter of hanging around the place until we got the details.

We had been awake all night. So, we grabbed some sleep. Of course, that was only after Kelly had exorcised her demons by riding me like it was the Derby and I was Secretariat. She has too much pride to show the fear that any solitary woman, cornered by five thugs in a dark alley, would have felt. But, the fiery intensity of her performance gave her away.

It was all over the hotel when we awoke, the cleaning staff had found the body of an American tourist stashed in the closet of one of the suites. Kelly hacked the hotel's reservation system and discovered that it had been reserved by a gentleman by the name of, Adeel Al-Asad.

So, we now had a name. All we had to do was track the varmint down and exterminate him. But that was going to require the help of a friend.

*****

Cyberspace is like the wild-west. There's no sheriff in town. So, the people who rule are the ones with the fastest gun. In that respect, Chelsea Hughes-Meissner is Wyatt Earp and Wild Bill Hickock rolled into a single hot body.

Chelsea is a gorgeous little woman. But that isn't close to who she actually is. Her extreme intelligence and implacable laser-like focus make her one of the most dangerous people in the world and I needed her services.

Chelsea graduated from MIT when she was nineteen and spent her twenties becoming the digital equivalent of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. By day, she was stunning little Chelsea, working at a Motorola lab in Boston and leading the single girl life. But lab work didn't come close to challenging her powerful intellect. So, by night she was the Red Dragon Revolution.

Because of its power and reach, the Red Dragon Revolution is one of the most feared hacker collectives in the world. The authorities think that it is an arm of the Chinese military. They would be astounded to find out that the Red Dragon is just one lone woman and her ten-year-old daughter.

In the realm of hacking - as is true in other areas - size matters. You need overwhelming bandwidth to drive automated network mappers, password crackers, and encryption breakers. That is the reason why hackers keep score based on the size of their botnet.

The Red Dragon controls a botnet of over fifty-million zombie computers. That massive amalgamation of computing power gives the Red Dragon more actual clock-speed than the world's known intelligence agencies. Consequently, Chelsea Hughes-Meissner can open and read anything digital, or steal anything that is kept on-any digital device anywhere.

Nevertheless, the ability to access everything on the internet is a handicap unless you can winnow the wheat from an infinite amount of extraneous chaff. Chelsea uses unique data compression algorithms that she has created herself. That lightning-quick speed is the true source of Chelsea's god-like power.

The other ingredient is her ingenious eye. You have to be able to see the things other people miss. It's a rare ability. But, it is what differentiated people like Julius Caesar, or Napoleon from every other pedestrian general they ever faced.

I got ahold of my little friend at her non-extraditable home on St. Lucia. She was delighted to hear from me. Chelsea feels like she owes me a lifetime debt. That's because Billy Hughes is her big brother, and nobody loves Billy more than his sister Chelsea.

I simply said, "I need the Red Dragon."

Chelsea has a husky contra-alto voice, which is surprising sexy given her diminutive size and her potential for world domination. She chuckled and said amused, "She's just waking up. How can the Red Dragon help you?"

I told her the entire story, from Pritman giving us a ridiculous amount of money, through Kelly's encounter with a near gang-rape, to our stumbling on a potential terror episode. I said, "Is there any way you can unravel this with your black-arts. I need to understand what's going on here."

Then I added, "Also, can you tell us where a gentleman by the name of Adeel Al-Asad is currently located? He seems to be the key to all this."

Chelsea sounded like she was locking in on the target. She said, "It would be helpful if you can send me a picture of the guy. Customs and Border Protection just installed a new facial recognition system at U.S. passport control. If Al-Asad enters the U.S., I'll know it."

Hmmm, so Chelsea owns U.S. Passport control? I guess that was to be expected. Every software-based system has exploitable flaws, and every super-hacker in cyberspace knows what they are. That's because they have already reverse-engineered them.

I laughed and said, "I spent an hour taking his picture. I'll send you the entire file."

Chelsea said, "Your client's name is Pritman, right? I'll look into him too. Anybody else you want me to put under the microscope?"

It struck me that Chuck had acted strangely. My instincts told me to look into him as well. I said hesitantly, "My contact at the JTTF didn't seem right either. Is there any way you can look into that?"

Chelsea gave me one of her sultry laughs and said, "That's the easiest part. DC records and stores everything. That's the Achilles heel of the U.S. bureaucracy. It makes everything they do an open book for people like me. Give me a day and I'll be able to tell you what the Director had for breakfast."

*****

Adeel had boarded the early ferry. By noon he had made the three-and-a-half-hour trip from Santorini to Chania.

Chania is a charming old place. It features a quaint harbor, which was built by the Venetians in the 14th Century. So, it is a major tourist attraction. But Adeel was no tourist. He was in a hurry to get to Ioannis Daskalogiannis airport. He had a plane to catch.

But first, he made a stop at the Alpha Bank just up the street from the port. He needed to deposit the Caliph's money. Trying to gate-check a duffle bag that is stuffed full of Euros would raise a lot of red flags. However, he could check the bag that contained the plans and the prototype for the mubtakkar, since everything in it looked mundane and harmless.

Adeel morphed into the Bobby Martinez personality as soon as the cab reached the airport. It was a test of sorts. He wanted to see how freely he could travel. The passport was in his birth name and there was nothing suspicious about a guy from the near north side flying back to Dulles.

As he settled in his first-class seat on the EasyJet A-319 Bobby reflected on how easy it had been. One quick connection at LGW and he would be on his way to completing his mission. He called the Caliph and said, "I'll be in Baltimore tomorrow. I have the plans and the prototype for the mubtakkar. Assemble the mujahidin at the location we have arranged. The sword of Islam will strike the Infidel on Friday."